


Hold Me Now

by Sinsrose



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Gang Rape, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsrose/pseuds/Sinsrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no happy ending. </p><p>  No, at least not in this story. Well one could disagree to that. It’s a matter of viewing a matter of logic or even the way one looks at the world. The colors of black red and white showing what sides are what. It’s a matter of choices and views, a matter of body and the matter of mind. Sometimes the unhappy endings are the happy ones, even if people wish for them not to be.</p><p>  It’s cold. Always cold, at least the floor. The tiling of Hydra’s rooms, they’ve always been cold. The floors, then again so have the walls. Everything feels devoid of emotions here, the walls, from the pale sick yellow colors to the faint greens in places. It feels like a deranged medical ward keeping prisoners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Non-con elements, mostly implied, if you have triggers for that type of thing please be care.

There’s no happy ending. 

                           No, at least not in this story. Well one could disagree to that. It’s a matter of viewing a matter of logic or even the way one looks at the world. The colors of black red and white showing what sides are what. It’s a matter of choices and views, a matter of body and the matter of mind. Sometimes the unhappy endings are the happy ones, even if people wish for them not to be.

      It’s cold. Always cold, at least the floor. The tiling of Hydra’s rooms, they’ve always been cold. The floors, then again so have the walls. Everything feels devoid of emotions here, the walls, from the pale sick yellow colors to the faint greens in places. It feels like a deranged medical ward keeping prisoners. 

His fingers twitching ever so slightly on the floor, curled in the mess of grim. That is mostly just dirt, and cum. The liquid is all over entire place honestly, scent heavy. It’s a musky heavy scent that lingers on everything, that attaches itself to everything. It’s a mark of ownership, a mark of claiming. A mark that sinks below the skin, and runs deep in his veins. The taste of it lingers on his tongue, that’s pressed against the top of his mouth. Dry and fuzzy feeling, he licks his lips for a moment, small pink tongue darting out to sweep over his bruised lips. 

His fingers haven’t attempted to move himself. No. They told him to stay put. They said someone would fetch him. Pierce, he had said stay still, and _don’t move_. So he hasn’t moved, he has stayed put, come dried on his skin. Some of it sticky still, some of it still in his hair, none on his lips though, no that had been cleared off a while ago. He had swallowed more than he had bargained for also, not that he remembers all that much what happens. 

Once the pleasure starts kicking like he’s been taught to do, he just follows orders. Following orders was what he was made to do. He was just a tool, just a weapon and just _theirs_. His eyes are slightly darkened, only ever so slightly from the leftover arousal, hands stretched above his head lying out on the ground. If you looked across his back, you’d see slight grim, cum, and the hint of scratches from someone digging their nails into his skin. 

The soldier leans his head on the floor, hair sticking to his face, eyes not focused in anything really right now. He knows the heat in his stomach isn’t going to go away, and he’s not going to touch. No, he isn’t allowed. They told him to wait for someone, so he will. Even if he passes out like sometimes he has lying here.

 He barely even processes the footsteps that echo across the chamber when they do come. He’s in a daze, mostly a well fucked daze.  He can hear footsteps come closer but he doesn’t look up. He never does, he’s been told to look down. His eyes are staring down at the floor, his twitching again slightly digging into the ground to give him something to do.  

        “Winter, stand.” 

   An order. One that he attempts to follow if it wasn’t so hard to. His legs are shaking it seems from the in and out he received earlier from the other Hydra members. It’s hard to force himself upwards to stand, he almost slips when he does so, but warm hands meet his side. The touch is almost jarring compared to the bruises and bites he received beforehand. The arm curls around his frame, and tugs him to lean against the person. He still remains looking down at the floor and not at the person. His mind, however is remembering brief moments, pauses of heat that are both unfamiliar and something that makes his blood _rush_ beneath his skin. It makes his heart rattle.

“I’ve got you.” 

The other mutters. Fingers curled around him, like almost cradling a child. It’s protective almost the touch, and yet there’s a certain caring to it that is held beneath the surface by the touch. It’s almost careful, and gentle not to break him or hurt him further. And he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why one of Hydra is being so gentle, being so _normal_. The fingers remain around him, as he proceeds to walk with the other. 

Lips pursed into a tight line, not speaking, he knows better not to despite the questions on his mind. He relaxes, fingers going limp at his sides as he walks with the other, being held. He’s taken out through a different door, one he’s not used to, through a maze of vacant hallways, and places that are not familiar. He assumes this is where some of the others have stayed to get their rest, the chambers they reside in, that’s what his muddled mind is telling him.  

“I’m going to get you cleaned up.” 

_ Buck _ .  He wants to add. He wants to say. But Brock, refrains, he holds his tongue. Because it’s not his place to say those words even though he’s heard them. He knows those words mean so much to him. They meant so much to them, and god. God he wishes that he hadn’t gotten wiped after that week, that he’d gotten him out; that he had ran _off_ with him, even if Hydra found them in the end.  

Bucky leans against him. Dazed, his eyes lost in space, not able to think much. He’s mostly just staring because he has no thoughts, none that are his own, that mean anything. Not to mention he’s ignoring the aching feeling in his bones, the pleasure that has been denied to him, that causes his blood to boil and that causes him to squirm beneath the skin. 

“Wait here.” 

Brock mutters to him. Tone light, leaving the soldier to lean against the wall, uncurling from touching him but he still has an eye on him. Fingers turning on the tub, turning the dials on to let the hot water fill the tub. Eyes giving another glance to him for a moment, as he undoes his own clothing. It’s not because he wants him in that way. No. As much as he wants _Bucky_ that way he chooses to be a better person and not take advantage of him, and use him for his needs. 

No.  He rather that Bucky could get away from it all and that the man is happy. His fingers turn off the water after it’s filled to a decent point, fingers beckoning Bucky over swiftly. He’s gentle. More than most would be with this man. He helps him slide into the tub, the washcloth and such already out along with soap and other things by the side of them. 

He lets the soldier slip over his lap. Letting him settle in the warm water that will sooth his bones, make them ache less. Brock doesn’t really mind the heat that follows, he doesn’t really care that Bucky’s body is literally over his lap. No, what matters to him right now, is weaving his fingers over the dirty skin, with the washcloth and letting him relax. 

“Relax, relax.” 

He says to Bucky. His fingers are moving to take a washcloth to his skin to start to clean him. “Relax; you don’t have to please me. You can just relax. I’m going to take care of you.” Brock mutters to him, his voice light, caring is evident in it. You can tell that he cares, you care hear it in his voice, and you don’t understand. Bucky doesn’t understand. The winter soldier doesn’t get why he’s being so nice, he’s not like the others. 

He’s not like _Pierce._

He relaxes, his limbs going limp within the water, feeling as the other brushes the washcloth across the skin. It’s heated his skin to the touch, heated and warm but none the less he does start to clean Bucky off. The grim seems to stick to every inch of the skin, the cum is harder to get off consider it dried on the skin making it a mess honestly. Part of Brock seethes knowing that Pierce had touched him earlier on. His fingers proceeding to wipe and scrub the skin till it’s raw, feeling Bucky shift slightly. 

There’s this noise this mewling noise that seems to escape Bucky’s lips. When he scrubs over a certain patch of skin, Brock figures it’s a soft spot. Considering all things and Bucky seems to relax even further his back lying against his chest, letting out another mewling noise it seems. It’s almost like he’s purring to be honest at the affections he is getting. Not that Brock is complaining, no he’s relaxed and that’s what matters.  

_ “Why—?” _

__ It’s more of a question that a thought, thought of. He doesn’t understand why this man is being so nice to him. He doesn’t understand why he feels so warm. He doesn’t understand why he feels so good being touched by him, compared to the others whom had made him want to scream and cry. Bucky- he can’t understand why this man is different. Why he matters to his _heart_.

Brock understands the word as soon as it comes out of his mouth. He understands because he’s seen Bucky like that more than once. He’s seen him ask questions, he’s known him to do this, when he starts to feel, when Bucky starts to remember things. Brock’s fingers scrub across another patch of skin removing the dirt and other unmentionables from his skin. 

            “Don’t strain yourself. Buck.”

The words are quiet spoken. Not harsh or hurt like Steve. Not cruel like Pierce. And he has his own shortened name for him; he sticks with Buck, over Bucky. The soldier seems to freeze for a moment when that’s said, his head seeming to ring, and everything moves in a rush. Steve may have triggered his memories, but Brock saying that name has a different connection of memories, things that Pierce had erased. 

 It gets easier for Bucky to remember him, but harder for him to see him in pain with his memory. His fingers curl under the water to scrub at the patch on his thigh, heat starting to trail back into the insides of Bucky’s bones. Brock’s fingers trailing the cloth higher as he washes, Bucky pressing flush against him again, the flush evident on his features now.  

“Brock- You.” 

          He pauses letting out a small hum of approval from the back of his throat. “Thank you.” It’s meant the words; it’s not perfect his memory but it’s there. The memories are there, it’s evident that they’re there. Bucky closes his eyes exhaling, the touches growing warmer with every touch and wipe to his skin; the careful movements but they also wash away the filth. He never has to listen when he’s here with Brock; he is his own person here.

                          Eyes flecked dark from evident arousal by the way his hands linger in places when washing, touching the right spots. “Can I kiss you?” Eyes meet Brock’s own eyes, staring frozen looking at him. Brock’s fingers are still holding the cloth by his thigh that he was washing, focused now on the man that he’d give his life for if needed. He doesn’t even need to speak the answer; the emotion in his eyes is enough.

   When Bucky turns and slips himself facing Brock, and slips his arms around his neck, it’s like coming home to both of them. It’s the type of passion you’d find in two young lovers that had just confessed their love to one another. It’s the compassion that’d you find in the first love someone has, the way that he presses closer as if to cradle and savor the moment for what it’s worth. Fingers that slide into tangled locks of brunette hair which makes a noise escape from Bucky’s throat. Hands coming to wrap around his neck, legs tangled beneath the warm water that’s below them. 

The liquid fire that escapes into the bones and ignites, leaving a wildfire in its wake. The snarled heat much like a cat pouncing upon it’s pray. The heat, the heat in his bones, it sears and tears him a thunder with a newfound heat. The pit of his stomach feeling warm and fluttery and touches are lingering from where the washcloth had touched.  Lips swollen from being bitter on, once more, exhaling sharply, as they depart from one another’s mouth’s feverish. 

   “Can I?- Can _you_?” 

Bucky’s voice is a rasp the evident pleasure rich in it, the way that it dips down deep. A lower tone, he’s asking. He’s asking still. He wants to touch, he wants to taste. He wants to feel. Brock’s hand slips lower- and _Oh. Oh, god._ That feels _good_. He can feel the heat to the bottom of his toes, the flutter of his eyes closing, and the intake of his own breath. His body arching upwards to meet the touches, he’s oversensitive from the teasing earlier, his body still wants to lose control.

Fingers dig into Brock’s shoulders, biting down on his own lip for a moment to muffle noises. Muffle the small whimpers that escape him. “Let me hear you, let me under your skin. Barnes.” Another word, another memory. Memories that connect. That whisper to him and that make him feel even more heated under the skin, which makes his fingers dig into the other’s shoulders.  

“ _Please._ Brock. ** _Please._** ” 

His words are strangled sounding almost choked off.  He’s asking for things, he’s asking because this is Brock. This isn’t Pierce. This isn’t Hydra using and abusing him. This is a man that uttermost cares about him, and wants to love him. That wants to be there for him, that wants to save him from what he’s becoming, and it brings another round of emotions to his plate. Brock’s fingers move the washcloth from the skin, fingers moving to slide across that of heated flesh in lower regions, and Bucky’s reaction is one that makes him flush and grow warm.

A low keening moan seems to escape the man, fingers digging harder into Brock’s shoulder. Lips parted in a small O shape, breathing quickened and face flushed with heat. Hair dampened now falling in front of his eyes and face, body slightly arched towards him. “God,” Bucky mutters, wheezing through his lungs, fingers sliding across the slick heated organ. 

“Brock, if you’re going to moan something, moan that.” 


End file.
